KIRSTEN MADE A TRIP to the store for dish soap and a can of Ensure. What used to be a quick errand two or three weeks ago was becoming a major outing. She had turned an invisible corner. Now she couldn’t walk all the way to the store and couldn’t drive safely because her reaction time was too slow. She had to take the bus up and down the hill. Even getting around the store took twice as long as it had a month earlier. By the time she got back the mail had come. In it was a postcard with a photo of a spruce forest and an eagle flying over. It said, I know you know. I’m okay. I’ll be there first week of December, love Livy. It was clear that Livy had never gotten the letter Kirsten sent to Dutch Harbor. Which meant her daughter was about to walk into another new and awful reality when she got to Seattle—and there was absolutely nothing Kirsten could do about it. She had been scheduled to start treatment ten days earlier but had postponed it, waiting to hear from Livy. Now she was waiting to see her.
Kirsten called the nurse navigator and left a message to say she needed to reschedule. She called Margaret to tell her she’d heard from Livy. Margaret lit into her about being a martyr and told her to get off the phone and call Cheyenne.
“Tell her what’s happening and get her home now,” said Margaret.
“I can’t. She thinks I’m a control freak and that I try to choreograph everyone’s life. Besides, she’ll think my being sick is her fault.”
“You talk incessantly about what the universe wants, but I bet it isn’t telling you to die to protect your pride.”
“You’re a materialist atheist. What do you care what it says?” said Kirsten and hung up.
Suffused with anger, she decided to go to the convenience store on the corner for the toilet paper she forgot. It was more expensive but closer and she didn’t have the energy for another bus ride. Even with extra adrenaline, though, that, too, took twice as long.
When she got back to her apartment, she saw a woman sitting cross-legged on the concrete landing in front of her door. She was camped out with an open box of cereal on her lap, which she was eating dry by the handful. The hood of her blue sweatshirt was pulled over her head so Kirsten couldn’t see her face, only damp corkscrews of red hair springing out as if from a wild untended houseplant.
As Kirsten approached, the woman jumped up and brushed the crumbs off her clothes. She stuck out her hand.
“I’m Sarah,” she said.
Kirsten didn’t shake Sarah’s hand so Sarah dropped it.
“Sarah who?”
“You called me in Juneau. I’m the woman your daughter was staying with.”
Kirsten stepped back.
“Cheyenne gave me your address. Here, see?”
Sarah held out a piece of paper. Kirsten took it. Seeing it was Cheyenne’s handwriting, she handed it back.
“Why are you here?”
“I was hoping to see Livy. Have you heard from her?”
“No,” she said and unlocked her front door.
“May I come in? I need to use the bathroom. I came straight here from the airport.”
Kirsten nodded. “Down the hall to the left.”
While Sarah was in the bathroom, Kirsten got out the postcard. When she came out, she showed it to Sarah. Watching Sarah’s face as she recognized Livy’s handwriting made Kirsten feel guilty for being so cold.
“You can stay for dinner if you want,” she said.
Sarah shook her head. “I’m meeting friends. I should go. The Neva should be in port in the next day or two. Will you let me know when Livy comes?”
“Is she expecting you?” asked Kirsten.
Sarah shook her head. “Will you call me still?”
Kirsten looked at the young woman’s face. So hungry, so tentative.
“I don’t know,” she said.